THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 
UNIVERSITY  OF 
NORTH  CAROLINA 
AT  CHAPEL  HILL 


THE  COLLECTION  OF 
NORTH  CAROLINIANA 

PRESENTED  BY 

Oavid  J.  Pittman  Fund 


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NORTH  CAROLINA 
.  COLLECTION 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2020  with  funding  from 
University  of  North  Carolina  at  Chapel  Hill 


https://archive.org/details/poemsmemoirsofliOOwill 


poems 


- and - 

flftemoirs 


- OF - 

Lieut.  Levi  Branson  Williams. 


/  7** 

1900. 

SENTINEL  PRINT, 
LaGrange,  N.  C. 


gftefifiRTY"  OF' 


PREFACE. 


The  subject  of  our  short  sketch,  Levi  Branson  Williams,  was 
the  son  of  Ezekiel  Randolph  and  Agnes  Williams,  of  Guilford 
County.  Born  on  November  13th,  1837,  at  an  early  age,  he  was 
left  an  orphan  and  in  the  care  of  his  grandfather,  Nathan  Williams, 
passed  the  happy  days  of  childhood.  Of  an  earnest  and  pious 
disposition,  he  was  converted  to  the  Christian  faith  and  became  a 
member  of  the  Methodist  Protestant  Church,  at  about  eighteen 
years  of  age. 

When  the  chasm  between  the  North  and  the  South  was 
broadening  into  a  great  gulf,  and  sectional  lines  were  being  drawn 
fiercely,  on  September  4th.  i860,  he  was  married  to  Mary  A., 
daughter  of  Owen  and  Temperance  J.  Lindley,  of  Chatham  coun¬ 
ty.  Although  he  felt  it  his  duty  to  volunteer  in  the  very  begin¬ 
ning  of  the  war,  he  desisted  at  the  instance  of  his  wife;  when,  how¬ 
ever,  the  call  was  made  in  1862,  he  became  a  member  of  company 
E,  Fourth  N.  C.  Cavalry,  attaining  the  rank  of  second  Lieutenant. 
In  a  comparatively  short  time,  he  was  made  a  prisoner  by  the 
Union  forces  and  died  on  Johnson’s  Island,  near  the  city  of  San¬ 
dusky,  Ohio,  on  September  26th,  1863.  How  much  he  loved  his 
home  and  its  inmates,  remains  to  be  told  in  the  following  pages. 

The  grave  has  long  since  claimed  all  that  was  mortal  of  this 
Christian  son,  husband  and  father,  but  his  exemplary  life  is  wor¬ 
thy  of  emulation,  Mrs.  Mary  A.  Barrow 


A  WORD  BY  THE  COMPILER. 


In  revising-  and  copying  the  matter  that  is  presented  to  the 
reader  in  the  succeeding  pages,  I  have  followed  as  closely  as  pos¬ 
sible,  the  wording  of  the  original  manuscript;  however,  in  no  in¬ 
stance  has  the  substance  or  intent  of  one  single  line  or  sentence  of 
the  author  been  suppressed  or  destroyed.  In  the  lapse  of  thirty 
odd  years,  many  facts  and  otherwise  interesting  incidents,  some 
on  paper  and  others  from  memory’s  grand  store  house,  have 
passed  into  oblivion.  To  the  end  that  the  numerous  friends  and 
relatives  of  Lieutenant  Williams  may  once  more  freshen  their 
memory  of  him,  and  every  North  Carolina  soldier  can  read  with 
pride  of  him  who  was  their  comrade,  loyal  and  brave,  though  un¬ 
fortunate;  this  work  is  now  offered  to  the  press.  To  her  who  be¬ 
came  his  bride,  when  the  cumulous  clouds  of  strife  began  to  gath¬ 
er  on  the  horizon,  and  who  remained  a  faithful  and  devoted  wife 
during  a  period  of  three  short  years,  before  the  grim  hand  of 
death  severed  the  family  tie  on  earth;  to  her,  now  standing  on 
the  brink  of  the  grave  and  only  waiting  to  be  merged  into  that  in¬ 
numerable  throng;  this  work  is  dedicated  and  may  it  be  an  inspi¬ 
ration  to  posterity.  Francis  M.  Harrison. 

December  5th,  1900. 


POEMS  AND  MEMOIRS  OE  EEVI  BRANSON  WIRIJAMS. 


Xl  THE  FLAG  OF  THE  UNION?7 


Ye  sons  of  North  Carolina,  come  rally  one  and  all, 

Stand  by  the  flag  of  Union  and  hearken  to  her  call; 

Her  starry  folds  are  quivering — trembling  now  upon  the  brink 
Of  dread  and  fell  disunion:  oh  save  them  ere  they  sink! 

She  long  has  waved  in  glory,  a  wonder  of  the  world; 

H  er  spangled  folds  all  glittering — and  must  she  now  be  hurled 
From  off  her  blood  built  pillars,  in  black  disunion’s  gloom? 

And  lose  her  world  wide  honor — ah!  must  this  be  her  doom? 

Must  temples  built  by  heroes — patriotic  sires, 

Who  braved  the  storms  of  battle — the  Revolution’s  fires, 

Be  tumbled  into  ruins,  and  fall  before  the  storm, 

Yea  flee  away  as  vapors  at  the  dawning  of  the  morn? 

Oh  no!  come  rally  round  her  and  keep  her  high  in  air; 

And  may  she  through  the  ages  wave  in  splendor  there. 

The  envy  of  the  nations,  who  would  rejoice  to  see 
Its  folds  rent  by  disunion,  oh  woful  would  it  be. 

Let  not  the  thought  of  danger  affright  you  in  this  cause, 

But  bear  aloft  this  standard  and  stand  by  all  her  laws; 

Your  country  now  demands  it,  your  home  and  loved  ones,  too, 
Then  stand,  ye  sturdy  yeomen,  ’neath  the  red,  the  white  and  blue 

Away  with  fear  and  trembling,  for  brave  hearts  now  we  need, 

And  when  to  act  we  call  you  let  each  the  other  lead. 

Thus  be  your  own  commander  and  rally  to  the  field, 

Stand  by  the  flag  of  Union,  her  stars  and  stripes  to  shield. 


4 


POEMS  AND  MEMOIRS  OF  EEVI  BRANSON  WIEEIAMS. 


Who  now  will  be  a  traitor?  Who  now  would  be  a  slave? 

Who  now  will  say  disunion:  who  fill  a  coward’s  grave? 

If  such  there  be  among  us  we  say  to  you,  “Depart!” 

For  in  our  ranks  are  wanting  none  but  the  honest  heart. 

We  want  those  who  for  Union  will  go  with  all  their  might, 

No  fear  of  danger  smite  them,  though  thick  may  be  the  fight; 
True  soldiers  and  true  statesmen  are  those  for  whom  we  call, 
To  stand  by  our  loved  Union;  then  come  up  one  and  all. 

As  waves  of  ocean  roll  at  break  of  dewy  morn, 

As  blow  the  gentle  zephyrs  o’er  fields  of  golden  corn, 

Even  dazzling  as  the  sunshine  upon  the  foaming  wave, 

Long  may  the  flag  of  Union  float  above  the  freeman’s  grave. 


THE  MURDER  OF  MARTHA  PENIX. 


Come  all  you  pretty  maidens  dear 
And  listen  to  my  rhyme; 

I’ll  tell  you  of  a  pretty  maid 
Cut  down  in  her  prime. 

Like  some  unlucky  flower,  she 
Was  doomed  to  droop  and  die, 

And  murdered  by  the  one  she  loved, 
There’s  no  one  can  deny. 

In  Guilford  county  was  her  home 
And  near  Jamestown  she  did  dwell, 

Miss  Martha  Penix  was  her  name, 

As  all  must  know  full  well. 

Poor  Martha’s  heart  to  love  inclined 
And  Cupid  bent  his  bow; 

Which  left  a  fatal  dart  behind 
That  proved  her  overthrow. 


POFMS  AND  MEMOIRS  OF  FFVI  BRANSON  WIFRIAMS. 


5 


A  young  man  near  to  her  did  live, 

And  Chipman  was  his  name; 

He  sought  and  won  poor  Martha’s  heart 
And  blacked  his  own  with  shame. 

And  vows  of  love  no  doubt  he  made 
To  ever  true  remain; 

But  yet,  like  others  when  away, 

He  never  loved  again. 

And  when  they  met  perhaps  he  did 
His  former  vows  renew, 

And  told  poor  Martha  that  he  would 
To  her  be  ever  true. 

This  wretch  had  thought  to  murder  her 
And  planned  it  out  this  way: 

‘‘That  he  would  meet  her  out  somewhere 
Upon  a  certain  day.” 

A  place  was  fixed  where  they  would  meet, 
And  there  poor  Martha  went 

To  meet  this  faithless  lover  then. 

Not  knowing  his  intent. 

Perhaps  she  thought  he’d  set  a  time 
This  courtship  for  to  end 

And  talk  of  those  whom  they  would  have 
Their  wedding  to  attend. 

No  doubt  she  thought  of  happy  days 
And  of  connubial  bliss, 

But  yet  this  cruel  monster  he 
Did  put  an  end  to  this. 

To  keep  suspicion  off,  this  wretch 
Into  the  woods  did  go 

As  if  he  was  a  hunting  game, 

To  do  this  deed  of  woe. 

And  in  a  lonely  hollow  was 
The  appointed  place  to  meet, 

And  to  that  dark  devoted  spot 
He  did  direct  his  feet. 


2 


6 


POEMS  AND  MEMOIRS  OF  REVI  BRANSON  WIRRIAMS. 


Perhaps  he  shuddered  when  they  met 
This  damning  deed  to  do, 

And  thinking  too  of  vows  he’d  made 
Forever  to  be  true. 

Close  side  by  side  upon  the  ground, 

No  witness  but  the  skies, 

Poor  Martha  rested  on  the  ground 
From  which  she  never  was  to  rise. 

And  while  they  lovingly  did  talk 
The  gun  he  did  bring  down 

And  shot  the  poor  girl  through  the  heart 
While  sitting  on  the  ground. 

Then  falling  backward  where  she  sat 
And  gaping  too  for  breath 

She  closed  her  eyes  forevermore, 

Her  soul  was  yielded  up  in  death. 

The  wretch  not  yet  quite  content, 

He  forthwith  drew  his  knife, 

And  ran  it  through  her  snow  white  neck 
To  take  the  warm,  pure  blood  of  life. 

What  horror  must  have  seized  his  soul 
This  awful  thing  to  know 

To  see  from  that  pure  brow  and  neck 
The  life  blood  ebb  and  flow. 

Or  was  his  heart  to  feeling  dead 
In  that  most  fatal  hour? 

Ah,  yes,  it  seems  the  evil  one 
Did  have  full  sway  and  power. 

Oh  Heavens,  see,  from  all  the  wounds 
The  crimson  current  flow. 

Is  no  one  nigh  to  witness  this, 

And  mark  this  deed  of  woe? 

Yes,  God  has  seen  the  horrid  deed, 

And  heard  poor  Martha  cry; 

Yea,  heard  the  murderous  gun  discharge, 
And  seen  her  bleed  and  die. 


POEMS  AND  MEMOIRS  OF  EEVI  BRANSON  WIEEIAMS. 


7 


This  monster  then  did  leave  her  there 
And  to  his  home  did  go. 

Oh!  who  would  think  that  mortal  man 
Could  serve  poor  he]pless  woman  so? 

No  stately  tree  nor  giant  rock 
Doth  mark  the  lonely  spot 

Nor  mighty  river’s  swelling  tides 
By  which  this  deed  to  trace. 

No  flowery  lawn  nor  grassy  spot, 

No  dark  and  shady  grove, 

In  which  true  lovers  oftimes  might 
Delighted  be  to  rove. 

’Twas  in  no  stately  palace  hall 

Where  wealth  and  grandeur  shine. 

True  love  and  wealth  are  enemies 
Which  never  can  combine. 

But  far  away  in  a  lonely  place, 

’Tis  closed  most  all  around, 

If  any  wish  to  go  and  see 
This  lone  and  silent  ground. 

A  bending  grape-vine  marked  the  spot, 
Dogwood  tree  stands  near; 

Each  causes  many  when  they  see 

These  marks  to  drop  a  glistening  tear. 

The  grape-vine  makes  two  bow-like  bends, 
Within  them  they  did  sit; 

No  doubt  it  was  a  place  where  they 
Aforetime  often  met. 

And  when  her  body  there  was  found 
Across  the  vine  it  lay; 

The  spirit  gone  to  other  lands, 

To  regions  far  away. 

Poor  Martha  from  her  home  was  missed, 
Suspicion  did  then  arise, 

Which  flew  the  neighborhood  around, 
Like  arrows  through  the  skies. 


8 


POEMS  AND  MEMOIRS  OF  EEVI  BRANSON  WIEEIAMS. 


The  people  then  did  searching  go, 

All  for  to  find  the  maid, 

And  to  the  lonely  hollow  went, 

Where  low  in  death  she  laid. 

There  lay  her  body  pale  in  death — 

O!  who  could  bear  the  sight? 

To  see  her  young  and  lovely  form 
Looking  so  snowy  white? 

Her  angel  form  lay  cold  and  pale 
Within  death’s  icy  arms, 

That  foe  of  all  the  earth  had  come 
And  blighted  all  her  charms. 

They  saw  that  she  had  murdered  been 
And  when  the  jury  came 

And  saw  the  form,  they  there  and  then, 
At  once  they  all  did  say  the  same. 

It  soon  was  noised  both  far  and  wide 
That  murder  had  been  done; 

The  people  then  began  to  talk 
Of  who  could  be  the  one. 

Young  Chipman  then  suspicioned  was, 

To  arrest  him  soon  they  came: 

And  when  ’twas  told  him  what  was  done, 
He  would  not  own  the  same. 

Straightway  to  prison  he  did  go, 

His  trial  to  await, 

And  many  thought  that  he  would  meet 
His  well  deserved  fate. 

And  when  the  trial  did  come  on. 

The  sentence  then  was  passed 

That  to  the  gallows  he  should  goT 
But  he  escaped  at  last. 

Out  of  the  prison  he  did  break 
All  in  the  silent  night. 

So  leaving  then  his  native  land, 

He  quickly  took  his  flight. 


POEMS  AND  MEMOIRS  OF  EEVI  BRANSON  WIREIAMS. 

O’er  hill  and  dale  and  grassy  plain, 

O’er  vale  and  valleys  too, 

He  tarried  not  for  day  or  night  or  pain 
But  swiftly  on  and  on  he  flew. 

Oh!  let  stern  Justice  go  and  search 
The  wide  spread  earth  all  through, 

To  bring  this  murderer  back  again, 

That  he  may  now  receive  his  due. 

And,  now  my  pretty  maic^ens  dear, 

I  pray  a  warning  take, 

And  mind  what  heed  you  give  to  vows 
That  all  deceitful  men  will  make. 

Think  of  dear  Martha’s  awful  fate, 

Which  I  have  tried  to  tell; 

And  when  you  have  a  promise  made, 
Consider  all  things  well. 


PRISON  MUSI  NGS.— Part  I. 


The  summer  has  come,  and  with  it  her  bloom, 

To  some  giving  joy,  to  others  dark  gloom; 

And  still  I  am  here  in  prison  confined, 

But  iss  walls  hold  not  my  wandering  mind. 

It  leaves  this  dark  place  like  lightning  in  its  speed, 
For  being  confined  doth  make  my  soul  bleed, 

And  flies  over  hills  and  rivers  so  wide 
Till  anchored  at  home  and  musing  beside — 

Dear  loved  ones,  it  holds  sweet  converse  with  those 
In  the  grove  on  the  hill,  where  gently  blows 
’Mid  the  towering  trees  the  zephyrs  so  sweet 
And  cool  in  the  shade  in  the  noontide’s  heat. 

I  should  not  repine  at  this  my  hard  fate, 

Or  weep,  or  lament  like  the  disconsolate, 

Since  in  this  frail  body  there  nothing  is  bound 
But  perishing  clay,  that  soon  ’neath  the  ground 


POEMS  AND  MEMOIRS  OE  EEVI  BRANSON  WIERIAMS. 


Enshrouded  will  lie  in  the  cold  mother  earth 
To  which  it  was  destined  the  day  of  its  birth, 

But  I’ll  loudly  invoke  each  sweet  passing  gale 
To  bear  to  the  loved  one  a  sweet,  soothing  tale — 

And  in  her  ear  whisper  so  softly,  and  tell 

To  relieve  her  sad  heart — that  with  me  all’s  well. 

Then  softly  and  gently  blow  on.  sweet  winds  of  heaven, 

Since  no  other  way  to  me  at  present  is  given, 

A  message  to  send  to  my  loving  wife  dear, 

For  she’s  longed  much  from  her  husband  to  hear. 

• 

Ye  winds  then  that  round  my  prison  doth  swell, 

Of  all,  tell  her  first,  that  her  husband  is  well, 

And  fondly  doth  hope  to  clasp  in  his  arms 
His  wife,  when  no  more  is  heard  of  war’s  alarms. 

And  in  her  ear  whisper  that  still  I  do  pray 
And  lift  my  soul  upward,  by  night  and  by  day: 

Yes,  tell  her  my  faith  in  God  is  still  strong, 

To  whom  now  and  ever  all  praises  belong. 

No  fetters  like  these  can  drive  me  away 
From  the  cross  of  my  Savior,  tho’  long  they  may  stay; 
Fly  swiftly  ye  winds  then,  and  fan  gently  her  brow; 
Perhaps  she  is  sitting  and  thinks  that  I’m  now — 

Within  my  grave,  or  racked  with  great  pain, 

And  scorched  with  hot  fevers,  and  aching  my  brain; 
Yes,  bid  her  not  sorrow  so  much  about  me 
Although  I’m  far  from  her,  and  she  cannot  me  see — 

For  when  I’m  free,  I  will  fly  to  my  home, 

And  from  her  dear  presence  no  more  will  I  roam. 

Go  tell  my  sweet  babies  their  father  is  here, 

In  prison,  confined,  so  dark  and  so  drear. 

Go  watch  their  sweet  slumbers,  and  then  to  them  tell 
Fond  thoughts  of  them  now  in  my  bosom  doth  swell; 
Yes,  in  their  ears  whisper  a  word  too,  of  love, 

As  soft  as  at  morning  doth  sing  the  sweet  dove. 

Yes,  tell  them  I’d  fondly  press  them  to  my  heart, 

Kiss  sweetly  their  cheeks  and  lull  them  to  rest. 

A  message  next  bear  to  my  mother  so  dear, 

And  tell  her  that  I,  her  loving  son’s  here 


POEMS  AND  MEMOIRS  OE  DEVI  BRANSON  WIRE  I  AMS. 


1 1 


In  prison  to  suffer  for  his  loved  country’s  good, 

But  tell  her  I  bear  it  as  a  true  soldier  should, 

Not  grieving  that  I  bear  a  Southerner’s  name. 

But  living — it  burns  in  my  heart  a  bright  flame. 

And  next,  to  my  sister,  a  word  will  1  send 
Come  listen,  ye  winds,  and  closely  attend, 

And  lose  not  a  whisper,  nor  one  single  word, 

But  tell  to  her  all  that  from  me  you  have  heard. 

Tell  her  how  glad'y  I  would  come  to  her  now, 

But  tyrant’s  chains  bind  me,  and  to  them  I  must  bow; 
Ah!  yes,  but  my  body  is  all  they  confine, 

For  love  for  my  country  will  never  repine. 

But  when  I  my  freedom  once  more  shall  attain, 

I’ll  rush  to  my  flag  and  uphold  it  again; 

Into  the  fierce  battle  and  raise  it  on  high, 

And  never  desert  it,  although  I  should  die! 

Yes,  tell  my  dear  sister  that  gladly  I’ll  come 
To  meet  her  glad  smiles,  when  with  war  I’m  done. 
And  now,  to  my  brother,  a  message  please  bear, 

Of  my  love,  sure  a  portion  shall  he  share. 

Tell  him  that  my  mother  I  leave  to  him  now, 

That  he  must  support  her,  while  age  on  her  brow 
Is  settling  down  slowly  and  silvering  her  hair 
From  anxious  night  watching  and  long  days  of  caie, 

While  he  in  his  cradie  a  helpless  babe  lay, 

She  watched  him  by  night  and  soothed  him  by  day. 
Farewell,  my  dear  mother,  my  sister,  good-bye; 
Farewell,  mv  dear  brother,  to  me  you  seem  nigh. 

Though  far  I  am  from  you,  and  cannot  you  see, 

My  prayer  shall  be  for  you  wherevei  I  be, 

And  to  my  companion  I  now  say,  adieu; 

My  sweet  little  babies,  farewell  to  them  too: 

They’re  dearer  by  far,  than  all  else  to  me  given, 

I  hope  we  shall  meet  in  the  mansions  of  heaven. 


POEMS  AND  MEMOIRS  OF  EEVI  BRANSON  WIEEIAMS. 


PRISON  MUSINGS-Part  II. 


Bright  June  has  come  with  all  her  flowers, 
Awaking  beauty  on  the  plains; 

Thus  we  have  passed  the  sweet  spring  showers, 
And  still  I’m  here  in  tyrant’s  chains. 

My  fate  is  hard  but  yet  I’ll  bear 

These  bonds,  and  be  resigned  to  take 
This  worst  of  fortune;  I  will  dare 
To  meet  it  for  my  country’s  sake. 

From  all  the  ties  that  hind  to  earth, 

I’m  separate  now,  and  far 
From  happy  home,  the  place  of  birth, 

They  shine  in  memory  like  a  star. 

And  more  than  these,  I  left  behind 
A  loving  wife — two  babes  so  dear, 

They’re  are  ever  present  in  my  mind, 

And  round  my  heart  they’re  clinging  near. 

Long  months  have  passed  since  them  I’ve  seen, 
And  long  indeed  has  seemed  the  time, 

The  fall,  the  winter,  spring,  gay  green, 

Are  things  that  were  and  summer’s  chime 

Is  heard  around,  the  buzzing  air 
Is  filled  with  music — not  forme, 

Although  the  sound  is  everywhere; 

They  are  as  things  beyond  the  sea. 

Because  my  heart  is  far  away, 

And  kindred  hearts  respond  to  mine, 

And  hope  looks  forward  to  the  day 

When  round  each  other  they  will  twine. 

Yes,  there’s  a  cottage  on  the  hill, 

Where  Mary  longs  and  looks  for  me, 

Ah!  yes,  and  oft  her  heart  doth  fill  • 

With  prayer  for  my  society. 

It  seems  I  see  that  angel  face 
And  in  her  arms  or  at  her  side, 

Fler  little  babes — oh  happy  place! 

If  I  were  there,  my  joy  and  pride. 


POEMS  AND  MEMOIRS  OF  EEVI  BRANSON  WIEEIAMS. 


13 


To  clasp  you  closely  to  my  breast 
And  feel  that  swelling  of  the  heart; 

I  then  would  feel  myself  at  rest 
If  I  were  sure  we’d  never  part. 

With  you  till  death,  relentless  death, 

Should  come. to  take  away  my  life, 

And  stop  for  aye  my  mortal  breath, 

And  end  with  me  this  mortal  strife. 

How  long,  O  fate,  shall  I  remain 

In  this  dark  place,  my  lot  to  mourn? 

How  long  shall  I  endure  this  pain 
Which  I  already  long  have  borne? 

How  long  away  from  loved  ones  dear, 

To  whom  my  thoughts  turn  day  and  night, 

Shall  I  remain  in  prison  here 

Shut  out  from  all  that  can  delight? 

The  thoughts  of  being  long  confined 
Inside  these  dark,  grim  looking  walls 

Doth  bear  with  might  upon  my  mind 
And  o’er  my  heart  it  seems  there  falls 

A  veil  that  dims  my  future  days 
And  causes  hope  almost  to  sink; 

As  with  my  vision  darkly  plays 
And  brings  me  almost  to  the  brink 

Of  fell  despair;  but  still  1  know 

There  is  a  power  that  rules  on  high. 

To  that  I’ll  look,  while  here  below, 

And  trust  that  Power,  although  I  die! 

The  worst  of  trials  then  I’ll  brave, 

Invoking  God  to  be  my  friend: 

I  know  that  he  hath  power  to  save, 

Therefore  I’ll  trust  him  to  the  end. 

He’s  been  my  friend  in  days  gone  by, 

In  all  the  paths  that  1  have  trod; 

I  hope  when  j  shall  come  to  die, 

High  up  in  Heaven  to  dwrell  with  God. 


4 


14 


POEMS  AND  MEMOIRS  OF  FFVI  BRANSON  WIRRIAMS. 


PRISON  MUSINGS— Part  III. 


How  slow  the  moments  pass  away, 

Each  seems  to  me  an  hour; 

For  here  is  heard  no  jovial  song, 

I’m  in  a  tyrant’s  power. 

I  stood  up  for  my  country’s  rights 
And  dared  the  foe  to  meet; 

I  watched  our  flag  wave  from  the  height, 
The  foeman  tried  to  beat. 

In  danger’s  hour  I  faltered  not, 

But  flrmly  grasped  my  sword, 

Nor  turned  me  from  the  awiulspot 
Where  cannon  loudly  roared. 

When  my  companions  fell  around, 

For  help  I  heard  them  cry, 

But  had  to  leave  them  on  the  ground 
On  gory  beds  to  die. 

Oh!  awful  sight  indeed  to  see 
Their  faces  deadily  yale, 

For  there  they  fell  our  land  to  free, 
Their  graves  are  in  the  pale. 

Although  I  missed  the  fatal  ball, 

By  which  so  many  fell, 

I  did  that  day  a  captive  fall, 

’Tis  sad  for  me  to  tell. 

A  prisoner  now  long  time  I’ve  been 
And  long  may  yet  remain; 

And  months  and  years  may  usher  in, 
Ere  I  my  freedom  gain. 

I  sit  and  think  of  home  and  friends 
And  loved  ones  far  away, 

No  kind  hand  to  my  wants  attends, 

Nor  cheers  me  night  or  day. 


P0EM3  AND  MEMOIRS  OF  EEVI  BRANSON  WIEEIAMS. 


15 


If  I  could  clasp  close  to  my  breast 
My  babes  and  loving  wife, 

My  troubled  heart  would  seem  at  rest, 
Would  end  this  inward  strife. 

The  thought  of  meeting  them  dispels 
And  drives  my  gloom  away, 

And  hope  within  my  bosom  swells: 
Roll,  time  until  that  happy  day. 


AN  ODE  TO  A  CARRIER  PIGEON. 


Come,  gentle  Muse,  my  pen  infuse 
With  sweet  poetic  fire; 

While  through  my  soul  sweet  visions  roll 
Of  all  that  can  inspire. 

Come  while  I  sing,  sweet  music  bring, 
And  sweeten  every  strain, 

And  let  me  hear  thy  rustling  near, 

Else  every  effort’s  vain. 

Go,  sweet  and  harmless  carrier  Dove, 
And  bear  a  line  to  my  far  off  love: 

Yes,  swiftly  cross  over  hill  and  plain, 

To  relieve  that  heart  of  anxious  pain. 

She  wonders  much,  so  long  I  stay 
From  her  my  dear  one  far  away. 

A  rumor,  too,  perhaps  she,s  heard 
Of  death,  then  fly  to  her,  sweet  bird. 

When  thou  art  gone  I  shall  thee  miss, 
But  still,  sweet  bird,  it  will  be  bliss 
For  me  to  know  that  thou  dost  bear 
A  message  to  my  lady  fair. 

She  never  thought  I  could  forsake, 
Then  these  glad  tidings  to  her  take; 

Yes,  bear  her  one  consoling  word 
That  still  I  live,  dear  carrier  bird. 


0 

1 6  POEMS  AND  MEMOIRS  OF  DEVI  BRANSON  WIEEIAMS. 

Yes  fly  to  her,  and  if  she  live 
Tell  her  my  absence  to  forgive; 

For  now  I’m  bound  by  tyrants’  laws 
In  prison  for  my  country’s  cause. 

If  thou  shouldst  find  in  cottage  shades 
Within  my  home  two  little  babes, 

Bring  me  from  them  some  prattling  word 
And  I  will  thank  thee,  carrier  bird. 

Fly  to  my  lady  love  and  say 
That  still  I  hope  and  trust  and  pray, 

That  soon  from  prison  I’ll  be  free, 

Then  home  I’ll  fly,  my  love  to  see. 

Yes,  fly  thou  swiftly  to  my  home, 

And  tell  my  love  she  must  not  mourn; 

And  when  thou  knowest  she  has  heard, 
Return  to  me,  sweet  carrier  bird. 


OENONE. 


On  the  holy  mount  of  Ida 

Where  the  pine  and  cypress  grow, 

Sat  a  young  and  lovely  maiden 
Weeping  ever  soft  and  low. 

Drearily  throughout  the  forest 
Did  the  winds  of  autumn  blow, 

And  the  clouds  above  were  flying, 

And  Scamander  rolled  below'. 

“Faithless  Paris!  Cruel  Paris!” 

Thus  the  poor  deserted  spake; 
“Wherefore  thus  so  strangely  leave  me? 
Why  thy  loving  bride  forsake? 

“Why  no  tender  word  at  parting? 

Why  no  kiss —  no  farewell  take? 
Would  that  I  could  but  forget  thee! 
Would  this  throbbing  heart  might  break! 


% 

POEMS  AND  MEMOIRS  OF  EEVI  BRANSON  WIEEIAMS.  1J 

Is  my  face  no  longer  blooming? 

Are  my  eyes  no  longer  bright? 

Ah!  my  tears  have  made  them  dimmer, 

And  my  cheeks  are  pale  and  light. 

“Now  I  long  for  sullen  darkness, 

As  I  once  have  longed  for  light, 

Paris,  canst  thou  then  be  cruel, 

Fair  and  young  and  brave  thou  art. 

“Can  it  be  that  in  thy  bosom 
Lie  so  cold,  so  hard  a  heart? 

Children  were  we  bred  together — 

She  who  bore  me  fed  thee 

1  have  been  thine  old  companion, 

When  thou  hadst  no  more  but  me! 

“I  have  watched  thee  in  thy  slumbers. 

When  the  shadow  of  a  dream 

Passed  across  the  smiling  features 
Like  the  ripple  on  a  stream. 

“And  so  sweetly  were  the  visions 
Pictured  there  with  perfect  grace, 

That  I  half  could  read  their  import 
By  the  glances  at  thy  face!” 


TO  A  STORM  CLOUD. 


Stupendous  scene  of  somore  hue, 
Obscuring  now  the  heavens  blue, 

Over  whose  bosom  lightnings  play, 

I  see  each  bright  and  vivid  ray! 

Deep,  howling  thunders  greet  my  ear, 
Each  dazzling  flash  imparts  new  sound, 
Both  far  and  near  the  sound  I  hear; 

It  rends  the  rocks,  it  shades  the  ground! 

Thou  hangest  out  a  darksome  pall, 

While  gathering  shadow  round  thee  fall 
Majestic,  hovering  over  the  sky, 

Across  thy  bosom  lightnings  fly. 


5 


I  s 


POEMS  AND  MEMOIRS  OF  DEVI  BRANSON  WIEEIAMS. 


O,  awe-inspiring  scene  thou  art, 

At  whose  loud  voice  the  mountains  start, 
Or  stand  and  tremble  while  the  shock 
Rends  trees  and  towers,  aye,  solid  rock. 

It  seems  such  peals  might  till  with  dread, 
Each  living  heart,  or  wake  the  dead; 

If  those  within  the  grave  could  hear, 
They’d  surely  rise  and  come  with  fear. 

In  thee,  Jehovah’s  power  displayed 
In  awful  splendor  I’ve  surveyed: 

I  know  that  God  reigns  in  his  might 
O’er  earth  and  sea,  the  Infinite. 

THE  WEARY  PRISONER. 


Hail,  smiling  morn  with  perfume  sweet, 
Oe’r  each  bepangled  lea, 

Where  nature’s  song-birds  singing  sweet 
Thy  sweets  are  not  for  me 

Thy  glorious  splendors  I  behold 
Outstretched  along  the  skies. 

But  viewing  o’er  thy  charms  untold, 
Dries  not  my  weeping  eyes. 

My  body  weary,  wan  and  worn, 

Is  fading  fast  away, 

And  still  I  wake  my  lot  to  mourn, 

While  sinks  this  feeble  clay. 

I  think  of  those  I  left  behind, 

With  whom  I  long  to  be, 

Yet  ever  present  to  my  mind, 

It  seems  their  smiles  I  see. 

Within  this  damp,  dark  prison  wall 
I  naught  of  comfort  feel; 

Save  him  whose  love  is  free  for  all, 

It  doth  my  sorrows  heal. 

Why  should  I  long  on  earth  to  stay, 
Since  ’fis  but  life  to  die? 

Come,  Death,  and  bear  my  soul  away 
To  realms  beyond  the  sky. 


POEMS  AND  MEMOI.RS  OF  EEVI  BRANSON  WIEEIAMS. 


19 


AT  THE  FOUNT  OF  CALVARY. 


Ungodly  man,  and  sinner,  thou 
Whose  life  is  but  a  span, 

Unheeding  all  commands  of  God 
Delivered  here  to  man: 

Remember,  if  the  righteous  are 
Scarce  saved  by  Jesus’  blood, 

Where  will  you  stand  when  called  upon 
To  pass  through  death’s  cold  flood? 

O,  recollect  Christ’s  Testament 
Was  sealed  on  Calvary’s  hill, 

O,  turn  then,  from  youy  wicked  ways, 
For  ’tis  your  Master’s  will. 

His  kind  injunctions  now  invite, 

Come!  kneel  before  his  throne, 

Call  on  his  name,  your  sins  confess; 

He’ll  claim  you  as  his  own. 

For  God  the  Son,  will  pardon  you, 

And  all  your  sins  forgive, 

And  with  the  righteous  you’ll  appear, 
Then  turn  to  Christ  and  live. 

Come  all  ye  long  sought  sinners,  then, 
Come  to  the  lovely  fount, 

Kneel  in  the  stream,  the  living  stream, 
That  flowed  from  Calvary’s  mount. 

Do  this,  and  when  the  trump  shall  sound 
To  call  God’s  people  home, 

You’ll  mount  on  high  with  angel  choirs, 
To  sing  around  the  throne. 


20 


POEMS  AND  MEMOIRS  OF  EEVI  BRANSON  WlEEIAMS. 


A  SOLDIER’S  LAMENT. 


Why  should  I  at  my  fate  repine 
Or  mourn  my  lot  as  hard? 

Because  I’m  far  away  from  home, 

From  all  its  sweets  debarred? 

Yes,  I  have  cause  indeed  to  grieve, 

The  hours  so  slowly  wear, 

A  prisoner  too  so  long  I’ve  been, 

It  almost  breeds  despair. 

My  country  called,  I  left  my  wife 
And  little  ones  so  dear, 

And  clasping  hands  I  kissed  her  cheek; 
But,  ah!  I  saw  the  starting  tear. 

I  said,  “My  dear,  pray  do  not  weep,” 
Since  ’tis  my  country’s  call, 

I’ll  go  and  dare  the  battle’s  strife, 

Though  in  the  ranks  I  fall. 

If  I  upon  some  bloody  field 
Should  fill  a  soldier’s  grave, 

Remember  I  shall  fall,  dear  one, 

My  country’s  rights  to  save. 

And  God,  dear  wife,  will  guard  the  brave, 
Whoever’s  in  the  right; 

By  his  strong  arm  he’ll  prosper  them 
They’ll  surely  win  the  fight. 

My  little  ones  I  now  embraced 
And  pressed  them  to  my  heart; 

I  held  them  long,  like  death  it  seemed 
That  I  with  them  must  part. 

Dear  darlings,  how  I  kissed  their  cheeks. 
The  tears  fell  down  like  rain, 

For  then  it  seemed  I  could  not  leave, 

I  kissed  them  o’er  again. 

But  still  the  hour  of  parting  comes, 

I  was  compelled  to  leave, 

And  once  more  kissing  wife  and  babes, 

I  told  her  not  to  grieve. 


POEMS  AND  MEMOIRS  OE  DEVI  BRANSON  WIEEIAMS. 


21 


My  heart  beat  quick,  I  turned  and  left 
Those  loved  ones  there  behind; 

Where’er  I  am,  whate’er  my  lot, 

They’re  always  on  my  mind. 

So,  mounted  on  my  charger  strong, 

I  joined  my  company; 

And  marched  away  to  meet  the  foe, 

To  light  and  to  be  free. 

Misfortune  seemed  to  be  my  lot; 

A  captive  taken,  1 

Have  been  confined  for  many  months, 
The  hours  drag  slowly  by. 

I  sit  and  think  of  home  and  friends 
And  all  I  left  behind, 

Yes,  past  associations  bear 
With  weight  upon  my  mind. 

Ah!  loving  wife,  if  I  could  send 
To  you  a  line  or  word, 

Twould  give  me  ease,  and  give  me  rest, 
To  think  from  me  vou’d  heard. 

And  oh!  could  I  but  hear  from  you, 

And  know  that  you  were  well, 

The  satisfaction  I  would  feel 
Is  more  than  I  can  tell. 

My  lovely  little  darling  babes, 

Dear  objects  of  my  heart, 

t  often  think  of  them  and  when 
I  do  the  tears  will  start. 

Yes,  ever  present  to  my  mind, 

They’re  in  my  dreams  at  night; 

And  jin  imagination’s  sphere 
They  fill  fond  memory’s  sight. 

Ah!  surely  I  have  cause  to  grieve 
And  weep  at  my  sad  fate; 

From  home  and  loved  ones  I’m  so  far, 
O!  this  misfortune’s  great. 

But  let  me  ask,  dear  wife,  weep  not, 
Though  we  are  separated  far, 

Ere  long  I  trust  that  we  shall  meet, 
When  ends  this  cruel  war. 


6 


POEMS  AND  MEMOIRS  OF  REV!  BRANSON  WIRRIAMS. 


THE  SLUMBERING  BABY. 


A  baby  in  its  cradle  lay  sleeping, 

Its  mother  sat  over  it  weeping 
As  it  slumbering  lay, 

She  thought  as  it  lay  and  slumbered  still 
In  the  lonely  cottage  on  the  hill, 

Of  its  father — faraway. 

While  watching  its  little  face  so  blooming 
And  in  her  heart  sad  fancies  were  looming 
The  burning  tears  then  fell. 

My  darling  babe,  is  thy  father  near? 

Art  thou  in  his  fond  embrace,  my  dear? 
Canst  thou  thy  father  tell? 

Then  the  baby’s  face  became  all  smiling, 
At  once  its  mother’s  face  beguiling, 

And  dried  the  falling  tear. 

Its  mother  said,  “My  darling,  I  know 
Thy  father  is  near,  thou  smilest  so, 

And  soon  he  will  be  here.” 

The  mother  was  right,  the  happy  morrow 
Dried  every  tear  and  soothed  all  sorrow; 

The  father  did  return; 

He  embraced  his  wife  and  child  so  dear, 
And  joy  now  reigns  where  late  the  tear 
A  palid  cheek  did  burn. 


POEMS  AND  MEMOIRS  OF  EEVI  BRANSON  WIEEIAMS. 


23 


A  DREAM  OF  MOTHER. 


I  dreamed  last  night,  my  mother  dear 
Thou  didst  nurse  me  as  when  young; 

I  thought  I  sat  upon  your  knee, 

Your  arms  around  me  gently  flung. 

I  thought  it  strange  that  I  should  sit 
Upon  your  knees  so  feeble  now; 

Thy  head  was  now  quite  silvered  e’er 
And  age  was  settling  on  thy  brow. 

So  large  was  I  you  tired  grew, 

I  rose  for  you  to  place  your  feet; 

And  when  you’d  rested  for  awhile 
I  thought  again  I  took  my  seat. 

But  let  me  now  a  contrast  draw 
And  useful  will  it  be. 

Between  my  lot  and  that  which  was 
Imagined  on  my  my  mother’s  knee. 

I’m  here  in  prison  and  how  long 
I’m  destined  here  I  do  not  know. 

And  this,  dear  mother,  oft  times  makes 
Mine  eyes  with  bitter  tears  o’erflow. 

The  battlefield  I  chose  as  mine, 

And  went,  my  contry  to  defend; 

I  met  the  foe  in  battle  strife, 

And  fell  a  captive  in  the  end. 

And  hard  indeed  it  seems  to  me, 

So  far  away  I  am  from  those 

Who  gladly  would  mv  wants  relieve, 
And  liberate  me  from  my  foes. 

And  oh!  how  different  is  my  lot 

From  that  I  passed  when  but  a  child, 

And  sat  upon  my  mother’s  knee, 

Who  at  my  prattling  often  smiled. 

And  as  to  riper  years  I  grew 
The  time  was  sunshine  all  to  me, 

And  everything  was  joyful  too, 

When  my  young  heart  was  free. 


4 


POEMS  AND  MEMOIRS  OE  EEVI  BRANSON  WIEEIAMS. 


Alas!  those  years  are  past  and  gone, 

Those  fleeting  days  forever  done; 

And  only  to  bright  memory  dear 

Will  happy  days  like  these  appear. 

And  will  the  dim  and  distant  future 
No  brighter  days  to  me  unfold? 

Will  it  no  calmer  joys  mature 
For  me  when  I  am  feeble — old? 

Ah!  surely  fate  will  loose  the  bands 
That  fetter  now  my  drooping  heart, 

And  at  the  entrance  of  a  hand 
Some  lasting  joy  to  me  impart. 

My  mother  dear,  I  ask  thy  prayers 
In  my  behalf,  if  1  could  see, 

Thy  loving  smile  and  happy  face, 

Which  have  so  often  welcomed  me. 

And  now,  my  mother,  fare  thee  well, 
Until  in  dreams  we  meet  once  more. 

If  not  in  dreams  nor  yet  on  earth, 

I  hope  we’ll  meet  on  Canaan’s  shore. 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  DEATH. 


I  know  the  time  has  come  at  last, 
That  I  am  called  to  die; 

Life’s  weary  labor  done  at  last, 

And  low  and  weak  I  lie. 

I  feel  each  pulse  grow  weaker  still, 
And  fainter  every  breath. 

And  soon  this  feeble  body  will 
Lie  pale  and  cold  in  death. 

I’m  far  from  my  beloved  wife 
And  little  babies  too, 

They  were  my  earthly  joy,  my  life,  ' 
As  pure  as  early  dew. 

Tell  Mary  that  she  must  not  weep, 
On  Jesus’  breast  I  lie, 

He’ll  take  my  spirit  when  I  sleep 
To  dwell  with  Him  on  high. 


POEMS  AND  MEMOIRS  OK  EEVI  BRANSON  WIEUAMS. 


25 


Tell  her  to  kiss  my  babies  sweet 
And  press  them  to  her  heart; 

I  hope  that  all  in  Heaven  will  meet, 
Where  we  no  more  shall  part. 

And  ’neath  some  dark  and  shady  tree 
Cast  up  a  little  mound, 

To  mark  the  spot  where  I  may  be, 

At  rest  beneath  the  ground. 

There  let  my  body  peaceful  lie 
Beneath  the  silent  clay, 

My  spirit  upward  it  will  fly 
To  dwell  in  Heaven  for  aye; 

From  all  its  toils  and  cares  below 
’Mid  trouble  and  distress, 

’Twill  be  farewell  to  pain  and  woe 
Within  this  wilderness. 

I  bid  farewell  to  kindred,  friends. 

To  all  I  hold  most  dear, 

I  go  where  bliss  shall  never  end, 

My  Savior’s  voice  to  hear; 

Beside  the  stream  that  never  fails, 

That  flows  from  God’s  white  throne 

To  hear  the  gladsome  shouts,  “All  hail!” 
And  ever  be  at  home. 


•  A. 


26 


POEMS  AND  MEMOIRS  OF  REVI  BRANSON  WIRRIAMS. 


AN  INVOCATION  TO  THE  WIFE. 


To  My  Loving  Wife: 

Though  sundered  far,  the  great  and  glorious 
Morning  Stars  yet  as  bright  as  first  ’twas  given  down  from  the 
shining  courts  of  Heaven.  Though  separated  far,  we  here  can 
meet  and  worship  at  the  mercy  seat;  and  ask  the  Savior  day  by 
day  to  guide  us  in  the  heavenly  way.  This  privilege  indeed  is 
dear,  that  we  can  feel  the  Savior  near;  we  ought  to  love  and  cher 
ish  then  within  our  hearts  our  Lord  and  friend.  But  still  could 
we  as  we  have  done — both  kneel  together,  side  by  side  and  wor¬ 
ship  Him  who  for  us  died;  ’twould  seem  a  paradise  below!  While 
travelling  through  these  scenes  of  woe,  to  share  each  other’s  tears 
and  prayers  — each  other’s  toils  and  joys  and  cares,  yet  we  to  Je¬ 
sus’  throne  can  go,  whence  living  waters  ever  flow!  And  there  to 
Him  our  sins  confess,  and  ask  him,  too,  our  souls  to  bless;  who 
will  to  all  our  wants  attend.  Then  while  we  have  this  gracious 
friend,  we  need  not  fear  when  men  revile,  protected  by  his  gra¬ 
cious  smile! 


oono  / 

1  -U4  vioil 


■<  S 

S 


VU  y  ~ ;  :• 


:« ‘ 


v.jfJo  h'.ir. 
JJ03  r;:i 
cow  brs 

5 

v  .  Zi  ■  ■ 

;l  3*10  dl 
■ 

mhsi 

■r;  :n 


Poems 
Lev  i 


a  n  d  rn  e  m  i  r  s  o  f  L  i  e  u 
Br  an  son  W  i  1  1  i  a  ms 


For  Reference 

Not  to  be  taken  from  this  room 


NORTH  CAROLINA 
•COLLECTION 


